


Remedy for Homesickness

by sheila_amour



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Homesickness, M/M, Russian food, can it be winter yet?, honestly winter is the best season for introspective fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 09:31:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16092878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheila_amour/pseuds/sheila_amour
Summary: As the winter season wears on Illya begins to long for his home and his past life in Russia. Fortunately, Napoleon and Gaby are there to help him.





	Remedy for Homesickness

**Author's Note:**

> I let 500 words of this sit in my google drive for about the last 10 months before I finally decided to finish it on some weird impulse these last two days. I meant to publish this around winter time but it's done now so here you all are hope you enjoy!

Winters are the worst for Illya. Outside snow falls, gathering along the streets, turning to grey slush as the day goes on and suddenly he starts seeing St. Petersburg everywhere he looks. Inside Gaby is nagging him to wear a warmer coat, bringing back memories of his mother wrapping an extra scarf around his neck before sending him away to school with a kiss. 

But New York is not St. Petersburg and Gaby, despite her tendencies to act like her, is not his mother. Those memories belong to an old world; one from the past and one Illya can no longer be a part of. What Illya can't stand the most is the absence of evidence that this world ever existed; he has nothing from home to remember it by. No photographs, no trinkets, nothing to physically hold save his father’s watch. He lives on memories alone.

But memories aren't tangible. They're loose and they fade with time, always hovering somewhere just outside Illya’s reach. Once he nearly bought a postcard of fresh snow gathered around the Winter Palace in a shop downtown, but opted out at the last moment.  He wasn’t sure he could stand to look at it every day.

Sometimes Illya wants to talk about this to Napoleon, but he does not think he will understand. The few words he's spoken of Indiana are dismissive or insulting; his home has always been here, in New York. In his own way though he thinks Napoleon is beginning to sense that something is bothering him. Last week he came home to a brand new coat, of beautiful black wool and shiny brass buttons. Illya had never owned a coat this beautiful.

“Don’t get me wrong Peril, that jacket of yours is lovely, but I’m not sure it can withstand another New York winter,” Napoleon had said to him, wearing that sort of smile he has when he’s hoping Illya will love whatever it is he has just given him.

Illya had wanted to tell him then about his childhood and the several feet of snow his village would get; how the kids would run out early in the mornings to play, clothed in the bare minimum to survive the cold until their mothers called them back in to put on something warmer. How they would strip down to pants and a thin shirt when they skated on the iced-over lake because their heavy coats only weighed them down and how the wind cut them as they slid at full speed but they didn’t care because they felt like they were flying.

But he couldn’t; he wouldn't understand. So he told him the coat was beautiful, smiled, and kissed him. He modeled it for Gaby when she came over, making her laugh with delight and tell him how handsome he was. She then poured them all a drink, toasting to Napoleon and his luck at finally getting Illya to wear something suitable for the weather for once.

That evening they drank and laughed and danced, keeping each other warm as the night outside the apartment grew colder. But when Gaby left and it was time for bed Illya couldn’t ignore the feeling of emptiness blooming in his chest. Even when they were having fun he could feel himself drift away; his mind refusing to take part in the revelry. He can't understand where this loneliness comes from and why it refuses to let him be even when he's lying beside the man he loves most in the world. He feels cold and numb; he has always felt winter a little too deeply.

It’s growing cold now and Illya longs to be back in the warmth of the apartment. He spent the whole day at the office, finishing up a long report from a solo mission he got back from a few days ago. The mission was to Cape Verde, where the weather was far warmer. He had missed Napoleon terribly, but in a strange way was glad to be away. New York has become too much for him these days, with its cold and the way it keeps making these memories spring up from the smallest of things. It’s easier to not miss home on the beach with its blue-green waves.

He has one last stop on his way home, to a market nearby to pick up some fresh strawberries for Napoleon. He wants to try a new berry tart recipe he was given not too long ago by Karen, Waverly’s secretary. He had called him at the office early that afternoon asking for him to pick them up. 

By the time the berries are bought and bagged it has already grown dark. Streetlights guide Illya home through the winter evening and he guesses it must be around seven or eight. His father’s watch had stopped working years ago, around the time he turned 21, but he still cannot bring himself to replace it.

He kicks the snow off his feet by the complex door, already feeling the warmth on his face as he steps inside. It’s a quiet night with only the hum of the radiator to keep him company as he trudges up the stairs, opting to walk the three flights just so he can feel the blood rush up to his face again. By the time he reaches the apartment door he is properly warm, already peeling off his gloves and shoving them in his coat pocket.

As he fiddles with the key he can faintly hear Napoleon playing classical music on the other side of the door and he smiles. It’s Tchaikovsky, one of the few composers he and Napoleon both agree on. He was also his father’s favorite. He unlatches the door, already planning what he is going to say to Napoleon about that particular piece, but the words never leave his mouth.

Inside it smells like home.

The table in the dining room is covered by the cloth Napoleon only uses on special occasions; a white lace piece he kept from his own mother. On it sits a big bowl of soup and its red color is instantly recognizable to Illya. Piled high next to it are slices of buttered bread that still smell warm, beside that a pot with something that looks suspiciously like pelmeni, and a bowl of creamy salad; white, red, and green.

From the kitchen Illya hears Napoleon shout at Gaby to put the tea on, he should be here any minute now.

“I am, I am,” Gaby steps out into the dining room, kettle in hand, muttering something in German under her breath.

She places it on the table, wedging it in between the bread and the pot of borsch. She takes a moment to admire her work, stepping back to take in the full sight of it, stopping when she catches sight of Illya.

“Napoleon,” she calls out after a moment, her eyes still trained on Illya.

“What?”

“He’s here.”

Silence from the kitchen.

Napoleon tentatively enters the dining room, his eyes on Illya, who is still struggling to take all of this in.

“Illya,” Napoleon says.

There’s so much Illya wants to say to him, to ask, but all that comes out is “I-”.

He can’t stop staring at the food.

Napoleon is scanning his eyes for an inkling of what Illya is feeling right now, but Illya himself doesn’t know quite what he’s feeling.

“I tried making some Russian food, I hope it’s alright,” he says,  “I don’t know much about it and these are the recipes I found. I know you miss home and I just thought-”

Illya wraps him into a big hug. It’s sincere, genuine. Illya wants to thank him from the bottom of his heart and he thinks this may be the kindest thing anyone has ever done for him.

“Thank you, Cowboy,” he whispers, holding him tight.

“Anything for you, Peril,” Napoleon whispers back. Illya can’t help but kiss him.

“Don’t I get a hug? I spent all day slaving over that damn bread.” Gaby’s arms are folded but her grin is a mile wide.  

Illya laughs, bending down to embrace her. “Thank you very much, Chop Shop Girl.”

“You know,” she says, picking a piece of lint off his coat, “your boyfriend is a real bitch in the kitchen. And I thought _you_ were the perfectionist.”

That makes Illya laugh again and Napoleon rolls his eyes, but Illya knows him pretty well at this point and it’s obvious he’s trying not to smile.

The borsch is the perfect shade of red. From its smell waft up memories of long afternoons spent with his mother, of a dull winter sun shining through the windows as they filled the time cooking the family favorite meals. He remembers the oven radiating heat and the smell of baking bread that lingered in the air far after the bread was placed on the counter to cool.

He pauses for a moment to take it all in; the smells, the colors, the textures; all the feelings of warmth and familiarity. It's hard for his mind to conceive that this table belongs here, in this apartment, at this time. He feels like such a boy again and the world outside those windows could be a small village just outside St. Petersburg if he were to get up and look.

But this is New York and he is a man now. Surrounding him is a lover and a dear friend and they have become his family. For once Illya is okay with that. There is a part of him that aches for the past, yes, but so much of him is starting to fall in love with the present and the man sitting across from him at the table.

He smiles at him as he ladles soup into his bowl. He's telling him something about the recipe and a corner market downtown but he does not hear it. In his head he thinks over and over _I love you I love you I love you._  

Illya laughs and rejoins the present when Gaby practically throws a slice of bread at him, telling him he better savor it because that's the last time she is ever making bread, does he know how long she spent trying to get it to rise?

As they eat he tells them stories of his past; just small ones like the time he knocked the wind out of himself trying to do a skating trick, and the one where his mother took him to see live theater for the first time when they were sick of spending their afternoons cooped up with nothing else to do but play chess and cook stew. It feels good to share these memories, to have them appreciated, to see the way Napoleon smiles at him when he tells them. In a way, they make home feel something closer and more tangible to Illya.

After dessert, a honey cake Illya devours two slices of, they move to the living room. They leave the dishes on the table, letting them become a problem for tomorrow. Gaby reveals a bottle of vodka ("I mean it's Russian, right?") and some records she had taken with her from East Berlin, a few of them Russian ones Illya doesn't recognize.

He dances with Napoleon that night, which is something he does not usually do. He teaches him an old dance he remembers watching his mother dance when he was a child at fancy dinners in large rooms with party members. They all laugh as Napoleon struggles to learn the moves and they fill in the steps with their own when Illya’s memory fails him. Gaby steals him away from Napoleon after her third glass and forces him to teach her as well, with Napoleon laughing at them from the sidelines. Illya feels light as air. When Gaby leaves for the night he feels strange and realizes for the first time he feels no sadness wearing him down.

That evening he falls asleep with Napoleon in his arms, who gave him a gentle kiss on his forehead and said, “If you want to I’d like to hear more of those childhood stories sometime.”

“Okay,” Illya told him, “tomorrow I will tell you about my mother.”

**Author's Note:**

> I based a lot of these foods on some Russian food I've eaten at this Russian deli in my city but I forgot some of the names, unfortunately. However, I can tell you that borsch is delicious and so is this honey cake they sell I love Russian food.


End file.
